Portrait of the Lisbon Girls
by Chicky Tifa
Summary: The boys sit in their tree house, contemplating their best portrait of the Lisbon Girls. Fond memories are conjured up, as they try to remember the girls whom they had loved so much. Please R&R.


Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from the Virgin Suicides, etc, nor am I making any money out of this

We tried to save them, but we only failed miserably. Despite the years gone by, our memories of them still haven't faded.

Their faces, their voices and their souls...we can still hear them, see them and be with them. But memories are no substitute for a living human being. Their possessions that we have faithfully kept are beginning to disintegrate, mirroring the fate of the girls' that owned them.

We now sit in our tree house gazing at our best picture of the Lisbon girls, frolicking in the garden on a hot day. One glance brings back a thousand memories.

Lux is grinning cheekily at the camera, her verdant sapphire eyes glinting mischievously. She's wearing that bikini; the one Mrs Lisbon was horrified with when Lux brought it back after a day of shopping. A wreath made of flowers, probably crafted by Mary's careful hands is resting on her golden head.

Lux, the Lisbon girl most lusted over. Wanton Lux, seeking out love from any source. Entangled in a torrid embrace on top of her roof with a random boy. Risking her health and her self esteem just to feel loved for a moment. The only girl to fully conquer Trip Fountaine's heart.

Serious Cecilia is sat cross-legged on a faded beach mat, staring at the camera, her penetrating blue eyes like chips of steel. Her green diary is resting on her lap, bright against her pale summer dress. Her unruly dark blonde hair is fought into two braids, secured by ribbons the same shade of crimson as her cherub lips.

Little Cecilia is what we fondly remember her as. A fierce imagination brewing beneath her hatch of hair, the first to spread the sickness of suicide, which then gradually claimed her sisters. We never really figured out Cecilia. A question mark still registers above her head.

Therese is knelt on the garden path, reaching down to take a sample of soil to analyse. Her science books are piled neatly beside her, her shapely lips pursed in concentration. She looks absorbed in her work, but one febrile blue eye is keeping an eye on her sisters as they frolic in the garden.

We'd always dismissed the eldest Lisbon girl as being bookish, cold, lost in a world of endless school assignments. But now we view her in a new light. Therese was the motherly sister, the one with the most maternal instincts. We all still muse over the idea that maybe she'd tried to convince the other sisters not to throw away their lives, but had only given in when she'd seen that there was no other choice.

We now turn to glance at Mary, dressed in a bright pink summer dress, her cheerleading manual tucked under the rug, the corner escaping and peeking out. Concealed from Mrs Lisbon's watchful eyes. A half finished wreath is perched on her lap, a veil of corn silk hair thrown over a baby blue eye. Her lips are tinted pink with the forbidden strawberry lipstick.

Girlish Mary, longing for the high school dream. Her eyes always watching the cheerleaders, longing to be one of them. We remembered how she would hide her cosmetics from her mother, only daring to wear them when the matriarch was out of sight. A rosary buried deep in her pocket. Skilful hands crafting trinkets for her sisters.

Bonnie is sat next Cecilia, flowers scattered over her lap. She appears to be sorting them for Mary. Her back is stiff, her posture proper. Her graceful long neck is tagged by a silver chain, which shows up as only a blur of light in the photograph. Her skin is lily white, her pale blue eyes squinting against the sunlight.

Prim and proper Bonnie, lost in the serene world of a fifteen-year old girl. Old fashioned in her manner, bordering on prudish. The polar opposite of fiery Lux. The image of Bonnie hanging from the beam in basement, as limp as a rag doll is still crystal clear in our minds. We still keep her votive candles faithfully.

The sun has set now. The Lisbon house, visible through the trees is shrouded in a dark pall. We strain our eyes, to try and see them sat in the garden, to try and conjure up their images once more. We can't. The garden is bathed in moonlight, giving it a ghostly glow. We turn to look at our photograph. Not a shimmer of vibrant life glows from it now. We add it to our suitcase, our tomb we have created for Lisbon girls.

Authors note: This isn't a story as such, more of a vignette to the Lisbon girls. Hope you enjoyed it. Constructive criticism and feedback is appreciated!


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